I am the pearl that your oyster spat out.
I am the scramsax plunged into your belly.
The smocking on your collar, I mock your demeanor.
I’m mean, then meaner. I mean what I say.
I am the woman that you threw away.
I’m the thin ice on the lake that you walk on.
You walk on. I call you. There isn’t an answer.
I am the canker that grows into cancer.
I am the acres of land lost to vandals.
I am the woman that you couldn’t handle.
I am a bracelet of terrible feelings.
I am the dead point of grandfather’s pendulum.
I am the doldrums your sailors must hazard.
I am the razor that murders you, Darlin’.
I am the woman not begging your pardon.
I am the full moon that tempts you to emptiness.
I’m the attempt of the noon sun to lull you.
I am the tawny owl gnawing her talons.
My talents are wanton. But I wanted you.
I am the woman that you cut loose.
The question is yes.
The answer is no.
The snow is plowed.
The ground has blood.
The yes is suspicious.
The no is good.
But you’re no good.
And you’re not god.
The dog is gone.
The bone’s been gnawed.
The doing is done.
Your going was awful.
And so: the jig is up.
Ergo: the plan is fucked.
My lamp is lit.
I spit on my palms.
I lay out my maps.
I tallow my wicks.
The thick of it,
I’m kicking through.
And I am sick of you.
Jill Alexander Essbaum is, most recently, the author of Harlot (No Tell Books, 2007) and Necropolis (neoNuma Arts). She splits her time between the US and Switzerland.
full throttle to choked forward motions denied saw her tailspin and raised her a nosedive all pressing questions applied to the wound saw the romeo saw the tango jilted the juliet quick as a foxtrot spin around the blocked advance meant tip off bet on that glass bedroom eye and near miss sighted saw her cherry and raised her on top of a lucky breaking point game point and stare and played her where she lay and lied about her whereabouts and said great mindless always think a likely story raise their hackles and rise to the bait the grin saw bared it all indentured gift horse raised a sprint some spirit fingers hunted marching pecked for orders cried dear diarist sinking shipmate still my best man overboard to raise a bucket saying need an extra hand to bail the blood now look what a mess you’ve made of that heart
Those days were still wearing their brand-new welcomes,
putting one word—world—in front of another, blazonry
and all good faith therein where was writ dexter, sinister,
pick a number. Any everyman was proud to proclaim
the state of even our disaster’s faster, trophies soldered
fist to plinth to tower over in precipitous dazzle down
to the waterlogged potter’s field in which listed fits pitched
for the night, the beaten band and the broken bank, the seep
where the earth wept up its ichor, war cry whittled to dumb
ditty—shoot first, shoot later—dialectic left for dead and
the closest exit indeed behind us by way of frayed refrain:
say when, say when.
Mama,
he’s not like
the other coroners.
Took me upstairs
and showed me
his coelacanth.
Sutured the last
of the suitors at sunup.
Straddled the strata,
solved for salve.
Same river begging
to be taken back.
Prayed effigy, efficacy,
something to sign for.
Bodies? Flutter fodder.
Fit start to endgame.
Last rites, riots,
stage left in a whisper,
best left beheaded,
behest left unsung.
Secured the parameters,
opened the aperture,
cut me a switch
and learned luck
a new trick.
Wind turned tail,
broke stride and won
over, air on the side
of the nacreous acreage,
my far cry.
Dora Malech’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in American Letters & Commentary, The Canary, Best New Poets 2007, Denver Quarterly, Forklift, Ohio, The New Yorker, Post Road, Painted Bride Quarterly, Poetry, Sonora Review, The Yale Review and elsewhere.